Coming to Terms with a Cardinals Dynasty

Did you know that, aside from the Los Angeles Lakers and New England Patriots, the St. Louis Cardinals might be the most successful sports franchise of the twenty-first century? They’re certainly in the top five. This was a surprise to me—they’ve achieved the distinction rather quietly—but the numbers speak for themselves. The Cardinals have been participants in three of the past seven World Series, more than any other team, and have won two of the last five. In the National League, only the Phillies have won more games since 2004. (The Yankees have won the most overall, by a thirty-game margin—and yet, in that time, only one World Series appearance.) And in the past eight years, across all four major sports, only the Lakers have reached their sport’s championship more times than the Cardinals.

Writ large, things are even more impressive. The Cardinals have won eleven World Series in their history, well behind the Yankees’ twenty-seven, but safely ahead of third place A’s, who show no sign of catching up anytime soon. Across all four sports, only four teams have won more championships. The Rangers might have had George W. Bush seated near their dugout, but the Cardinals are unmistakable members of baseball’s one percent.

I didn’t keep score during Friday night’s Game Seven, the first such event since 2002, but glancing up at a bar television now and then revealed a pretty ho-hum game, at least next to Thursday night’s magic: two quick Texas scores in the first, followed by a slow dribble of runs in the other team’s column. The Rangers never showed any evidence of a late spark and I, for one, felt pangs of sympathy for the once-bubbly Ron Washington, the stoic Josh Hamilton, and the unfortunately-mustachioed Derek Holland. I’d been rooting for Texas from the start in large part because, to my mind, they had been the underdogs all series. Now, they’d been within one strike of the championship—twice!—after losing here last year, too. Texas has never won it all, and, having watched many of my own teams blow leads or lose close games, I always find more sympathy for the losing squad than excitement for the winners. By the end, I still wasn’t ready to be happy for theCardinals even after a colleague pointed out that this victory meant that now, at least, that wonderful Game Six would be more meaningful than a footnote.

My Game Seven night ended on a Brooklyn-bound D train. It was late, and the passengers seemed mostly to be morose Yankee and Mets fans. But there was one man, the best-dressed in the train, who seemed downright giddy. He was wearing a khaki suit and wingtips and a violet tie and a bright red Cardinals cap on top. I sidled over and offered my congratulations, only to notice that he had a St. Louis jersey on where an Oxford shirt should have been. “I wore it to work,” he said. “Then I had to take it off, but it’s back on now.” The jersey was No. 5, of course, for Albert Pujols, whom he hoped would return next season to extend the Cardinals dynasty. This St. Louis native had moved East in spurts, first to Indianapolis then to New York. He generally wasn’t all that homesick for St. Louis, but his parents were still there and he missed them in moments like this. That was enough for me. A man and his mom and dad, connected for a night across a thousand miles by a baseball team. Long live the dynasty.